We live—that is, _we_ aforesaid—not on a fresh-water deposit, like the people of Purbeck, Hastings, and so on, but upon an _old marine deposit_. The huge cliffs of chalk that gave the name of _Albion_, the “white isle,” to our country, with all these downs, which rest upon chalk, having a depth or thickness of often more than two thousand feet, were once formed at the bottom of pre-Adamite oceans; and in process of time, as the secondary period drew near to its destined close, and other and higher types of life were to make their appearance, were upheaved by Him, “whose hands thus formed the dry land,” to serve the future purposes and contribute to the comforts of the coming lord of all. Of this Albion we may well be proud, as the home of religion, the birth-place of true freedom, and the sanctuary of the oppressed. With Coleridge we exclaim:— “Not yet enslaved, nor wholly vile, O Albion, O my mother isle! Thy valleys fair, as Eden’s bowers, Glitter green with sunny showers; Thy grassy upland’s gentle swells Echo to the bleat of flocks; Those grassy hills, those glittering dells, Proudly ramparted with rocks; And Ocean, ’mid his uproar wild, Speaks safety to his island-child. Hence for many a fearless age Has social quiet loved thy shore; Nor ever proud invader’s rage Or sack’d thy towers or stain’d thy fields with gore.”